Being true to myself

On imposter syndrome, authenticity, and the lure of fitting in

It’s been a few weeks since I started using Substack ‘properly’. I’ve stuck to my goal of publishing something at least once a week, and it feels good to have this self-imposed target to get me back into the discipline of writing and posting more regularly. I’ve also started, albeit tentatively, to share my page with my close friends. It’s felt frightening and exciting, but overall, the experience has been positive. All in all, I like it here.

When I decided to start posting again, I was interested in what the experience would be like, given the intense fear I have of putting myself out there. Rather than become paralysed by fear, I decided to try and view the whole thing as a big science experiment; to see if I could be curious about what was coming up, rather than just run away from it (which has been my MO to date). So today I wanted to write about some uncomfortable feelings that have arisen since I started posting here again. 

The feelings mainly relate to how I think I should show up. And when I say should, I mean inverted commas “should” - not something that’s grounded in any sort of reality, but that comes instead from the conditioned part of my brain that’s driven to conform and be good and do it “right.” These feelings are pretty sneaky, and are liable to slip past me if I’m not careful. In the past few weeks, I’ve started scrolling the Notes feed in the Substack app, and I’ve followed and subscribed to some more pages, both of which have been interesting and inspiring in equal measure. Yet, almost without realising, I’ve noticed how I’ve started to compare what I’m doing to others. I’ve started to look my ‘stats’ page more. I’ve started to wonder whether I need a niche. Underneath all of this, is a fear that I’m not good enough, and I shouldn’t be here. 

When I look at these thoughts in isolation, I can see them for what they are, and counteract them. I can, with confidence, remind myself of the reason why I’m writing (for the joy of it, to express myself, because it helps to get the noisy thoughts out of my head). I can reason with myself that looking at the stats page is a fruitless task: when self-promotion is an alien concept, it stands to reason that your inbox won’t be flooded with new subscribers and followers. I can prompt myself to stick to my guns about the dreaded ‘niche.’ I know having one might garner some more interest, but I feel resistant to pin things down to a specific topic or area. I thought, originally, that I wanted to write about transitions, and our move to Wales, or our infertility journey, but it quickly became clear that not everything fitted into those little boxes, and so I did away with the niche.

When my wise self is online and in good mental shape, I can listen and take on board what she’s saying and generally not worry too much. If I’m having a bad day, it looks very different up there. Imposter syndrome is real, and it’s wild to me how many people I know - creative, intelligent, amazing humans - who feel it. We fear we’re not as good as other people, that we don’t belong, that we’re somehow going to be ‘found out.’ For me, this often manifests a few days after I’ve written or posted something. After I’ve done the thing: written the newsletter, posted it, and given myself a big rosette for doing so, an indeterminate amount of time will pass, and then I’ll suddenly be gripped with thoughts like “WTF HAVE I DONE?” “WHY DID I SAY THAT?” “THIS POST IS SHIT” etc etc. (Side bar: I recently read an article that suggests that there are 5 different types of Imposter Syndrome and a quick skim revealed to me that I am, in fact, all 5, which was both alarming and reassuring). Although these dramatic thoughts will usually pass, the point at which they pipe up is reasonably predictable and almost always unpleasant. 

At risk of jumping on the authenticity bandwagon, I think that’s what it comes down to. Like so many concepts, the idea of authenticity simply wasn’t around when I was growing up, and as a result I’ve felt quite far away from the idea of my ‘authentic self.’ From this new vantage point of my early forties, I’m beginning to catch glimpses of it, and lean in to it, a little piece at a time. Many people become aware of the existence of their authentic self through therapy, while for others, it’s the breaking open - through grief and heartache and disappointment - that uncovers parts of the self that have laid dormant for years. It was certainly the latter for me.

As I understand it, connecting with our true, whole, authentic self, involves peeling back the layers of the onion (or, to use IFS language, the bulbs of the garlic), to find the parts of us that existed when we were born, but that have been wallpapered over by conditioning -  from the world, our parents, school, relationships - and programmed into our subconscious mind. It takes concerted effort and regular practice to rewire these pathways, and so we end up in familiar situations: fighting a losing battle against the heft of these old programmes still running the show. From this perspective, we might act from an inauthentic place. It’s the opposite of being ‘true’ to ourselves. We may say yes when we mean no. We may agree to keep the peace. We may swerve difficult conversations to avoid conflict and hurting others, but hurt ourselves in the process. As a recovering people pleaser, I know this terrain well. Although I’ve done a lot of work to recognise these behaviours, they’re definitely still in there, lurking around. 

Here’s an example specifically related to writing and to posting on Substack: I like to write long posts. I can’t help it - it’s just how it comes out. When I first joined Substack, I didn’t think for a moment about the lengths of my blogs - the 12 minute or 15 minute, or (heaven forbid!) 17 minute read. Yet in the past couple of weeks, as I’ve dipped my toes into Substack in more depth, and have begun to follow more people, I’ve noticed that others seem to post much shorter posts. Tie this factor to with the part of me that thinks it might be nice to gain a few followers and subscribers, and a bunch of new questions and concerns arise: are people not subscribing to my newsletter because my posts are too long? Am I putting people off? Are my titles shit and unenticing? Should I try to be a bit snappier? 

These concerns initially appear to be valid ones; at least in the familiar landscape of my mind which has, historically, been very concerned with being liked, of belonging, and of fitting in. The desire to belong is inherent within us as humans and is third on the list in Maslow’s famous hierarchy of needs. It’s also, without a doubt, one of my core values. To belong: to feel love and intimacy and connection, and to be recognised and seen by others - is one of the best feelings in the world. Yet, my aforementioned concerns also come from a place of fear. If I adapt how I write to meet a perceived need in others, I fail to express myself in the way that feels most true and right to me. That feels like inauthenticity. And any sense of belonging gained would be temporary, fleeting, because it would be grounded in insincerity. I want to belong for who I am, not for an artificial version of myself that I want everyone to like. 

On the flip side, on the rare and wonderful occasions when I’m grounded in my true, whole self - the part of myself I believe to be authentically ‘me’ - I know that the concerns I have (about the lengths of my newsletters, for example) don’t actually matter (and more to the point, are not really what it’s about). I also know that these concerns - all of which are posed by my anxious parts - aren’t true. Those parts just want me to feel ok, and be liked, and to fit in. And if I can see the anxious parts for what they are (i.e. anxious), then it becomes easier to drop back into the more authentic part of myself, that knows what is right for me, and, crucially, recognises that what is right for me, might not be right for others. 

I alluded to this concept in a previous post (it’s a 15 minute one, incidentally), where I explored the idea of the felt sense in the body, and the way that certain people, words, landscapes, colours, land for us. The way that, if we’re tuned in enough, we can start to use the body as a guide as opposed to relying solely on the mind. I realised then that what resonates with me won’t be what resonates for everyone, and the same goes here, with my ‘post length’ conundrum. The actual truth is that some people love a long read. I myself am one of them! There’s nothing I like better than to settle in with a long post. I know I can’t be the only one. As much as the modern world would have us believe that there’s only one way to live, eat, exercise, raise your kids, celebrate Christmas etc etc, the truth is that life is so much more nuanced. I think that’s why I’ve fallen so hard for systems like Ayurveda and Human Design, because they hold that differentiation so beautifully: what works for me and my body and my mind and my life won’t always work for yours, and that’s ok, because we’re not the same. And we can still connect and find belonging and love and camaraderie, even as we recognise the differences between us. 

And so I’m going to keep at it, in the same way I’ve been going so far. I don’t want to change what I say and how I write, and how much I write, and how much I want to pontificate and tie lots of disparate threads together in one long ramble, just to get more followers and likes. I’ve always had a hard time with social media - at least in recent years - and I very rarely post anything as it always causes me anxiety. Substack is the first platform I’ve found where that anxiety is (somewhat!) diminished. Mainly it’s because I know I’m surrounded by lots of people who also just love writing, and so it’s starting to feel much less vulnerable to be here and write, simply for the sake of it. 

When I consider how strong the cultural imperative is towards fitting in, my newfound conundrums about how I show up on Substack and remain true to what I want and need and feel, seems much more understandable. I know it’s the work of a lifetime to turn down the volume on the parts of me that have felt frightened to express myself in the past, but it’s a practice that I’m willing to keep hammering away at. 

Incidentally (and accidentally - honest) this is one of my shortest posts to date. I’ll do my best not to obsess over the stats page too much - wish me luck!

Thank you for reading.

x

(If in doubt, ask Brene Brown ❤️)